


Breaking Point

by margdean56



Series: Tower Mountain/New Hope stories [7]
Category: Elfquest
Genre: Gen, Healing, Tower Mountain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-16
Updated: 2012-09-16
Packaged: 2017-11-14 09:30:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/margdean56/pseuds/margdean56
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mikail finally breaks the pledge he made to himself back in "Magic Touch."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breaking Point

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published in _Tales of the Tower #5_
> 
> Reprinted in _Yearnings III_ as Part II of "A Perilous Gift"

TWR 1102

There were times, Mikail reflected, when he wished his chambers were not quite so far up the Grand Stair. It was considered a privilege to be counted among the Declared of Tower Mountain and to have one’s apartments situated not far below the eyries of the elite hawkriders, but it made for a long climb after a late rehearsal for one who could not glide. The dancer allowed himself a small sigh of relief as he reached his doorway at last and drew aside the heavy embroidered curtain.

Torek, Mikail’s human attendant, entered behind him. The tall, auburn-haired young man stepped quickly across the darkened room and lit a standing lamp from the lantern he carried. Then he turned to Mikail. “Will you be needing anything more, Honored One? Something to eat, maybe? There won’t be anyone in the kitchens at this time of night, but I think I still remember where everything is,” he added, with a grin on his angular face.

“No doubt,” his master replied dryly. Torek had entered his service less than a turn before; prior to that the young man had been a kitchen worker. “No thank you, Torek, I won’t ask anything more of you tonight. Go get some sleep.”

“Yes, Honored One. Will you be wanting an early breakfast tomorrow, then?” Torek asked with an innocent air.

“Try that and you’ll be learning the kitchens all over again!” Mikail exclaimed. He pointed imperiously toward the door. “Out!”

“Yes, Honored One.” Torek’s tone was all meekness, but he could repress neither his grin nor the twinkle in his dark eyes as he bowed and left the room. Once the human was gone, Mikail relaxed and let a smile touch his own lips. Most Tower elves would be outraged at such impudence from their human servants, but personally he found it refreshing. That irrepressible cheekiness was one of the things about Torek that first attracted him.

The blond dancer raised his arms above his head and stretched. This evening’s rehearsal had been a long one. The dance was going so well that he’d been reluctant to call a halt and lose the energy the troupe was getting. Afterward he had lingered to discuss details of staging and costumes with Peysol. All of them would probably pay for his enthusiasm with some stiffness tomorrow. He’d last seen Crystel and Sharai heading for the baths. If it hadn’t been so late by the time he finished talking to the wardrobe master, he might have considered a hot bath himself. He should speak to Shadaln about getting Torek trained in massage techniques. Torek would make a good masseur; he had strong, supple hands, and unlike some humans would not be afraid to put a bit of muscle behind them. Mikail’s previous body-servant, Adrovic, had been a good, gentle soul, but tended to act as if elves were made of glass.

The dancer’s musings were cut off by a sharp voice coming from the doorway to the inner bedchamber. “It’s about time you got back.”

Mikail turned, startled, then glanced over his shoulder to make sure the curtain over the entryway was fully closed. Reassured that it was, he turned back to confront his unexpected visitor, a small elf with shaggy red hair to his hips, clad only in a green loincloth. In a voice barely above a whisper he demanded, “Widget, what are you doing here?”

Most of the elves in Tower Mountain would have given eight turns’ harvest of dreamberries to be in Mikail’s place right now—face to face with and within an easy jump of the elusive “Mouse,” whose capture would earn the highest favor of Lord Tyaar for the elf who accomplished it. That Mikail would not for an instant consider taking advantage of this rare opportunity was one reason why he was occasionally favored with Widget’s presence. At the moment, however, he was insensible of the honor. He ran a hand through his already tousled hair. “Do you realize how late—” 

“Yes I do, curse it!” Widget snapped. “I’ve been popping in and out of here since first moonrise.” The rockshaper stepped closer. Mikail suddenly noticed the tension in his wiry body and the tight, anxious expression on his face.

“What’s wrong? What has happened?”

“It’s Mijo. He’s hurt.”

The last of Mikail’s annoyance vanished, replaced by concern. Mijo was the reason behind the unlikely association of the “crazy” renegade rockshaper and himself, Lord Tyaar’s nephew. He was the out-of-Recognition child of Vallaree, the dancer’s star pupil and sister to his best friend, and an Outsider elf named Bugdance who had fled Tower Mountain, soon after lovemating with her, to escape Tyaar’s wrath. Bugdance had probably never realized he had sired a child. Vallaree herself was unaware of her pregnancy for some time after his departure. When she finally did realize it, she and her mother, Vayree, sought Mikail’s help in concealing her condition. None of them had any idea what Lord Tyaar’s reaction would be to a child of such parentage, but they did not care to find out. With the aid of Crystel, one of Mikail’s dance troupe, they had succeeded in secluding Vallaree until the birth of her son, and in hiding the child after he was born. But it was Widget who eventually adopted Mijo. Widget knew every fingerbreadth of Tower Mountain, and his rockshaping powers and secret maze of self-made tunnels allowed him to hide the child as cleverly as he eluded all attempts at his own capture. His care for Vallaree’s son was enough to convince Mikail that the supposedly crazy elf was as sane as anyone in the Tower; their shared love of the child was the basis of a growing friendship between them. 

Mikail responded quickly to Widget’s anxiety. “How bad is it?”

The rockshaper’s gaze dropped. “Bad,” he whispered. “He got caught in one of Beliel’s little inventions—some sort of sliding stone trap. I got him out, but … his leg…” His fists clenched. “I’d like to strangle that snake-faced slime!” Widget swallowed, then went on, “I wanted to take him to Vayree, but Shadaln’s been with her all evening. I was hoping you could go in there and pry her loose. He needs … he needs a healer, but he’s not likely to get one, is he? I figured Vayree was the next best thing.”

For a moment Mikail felt like shouting, _You promised to keep him safe! How could you let him be hurt?_ But no—they had accepted that risk when they gave Mijo into Widget’s care. What amounted to an apprenticeship with the Mouse was a position well suited to the mercurial, mischievous temperament Mijo had inherited from his father. Even had Widget wanted to, he could hardly have prevented the irrepressible youth from joining in on his life of pranks and pilfering. And none of them really wanted to prevent it. Part of the reason they had let Mijo go with Widget in the first place was to give him as much freedom as they could, without revealing his existence to anyone but the conspirators. Keeping him a prisoner all his life would be hardly better than whatever fate Lord Tyaar would have meted out to him. But now…

“What do you mean, he needs a healer?”

Widget’s expression tightened even more, his blue-gray eyes hollow and the bones of his face showing plainly under the skin. “His leg was—crushed. Not a clean break. If—if we can keep it from festering I don’t think he’ll die, but…” His voice sank to a ragged near-whisper. “…I don’t know if he’ll be able to use it.”

“No.” The dancer’s own voice was stricken. Mijo seemed to have inherited all of his dancer mother’s joy in motion along with his father’s treewee-like agility and hyperactivity. He had hardly stopped moving from the day he first quickened in the womb. The thought of his adopted nephew being crippled for life was more than Mikail could bear.

_Odd,_ he found himself thinking a heartbeat or two later. _I had dreaded this moment above all else. Why do I feel so calm?_ He had expected conflict; instead there was clarity. There was no doubt in his mind about what he would do. _How could I have imagined I might do otherwise?_ For a brief moment he looked down at his hands. Then he raised his eyes to Widget’s. “Take me to him.”

 

A short time later the two of them were scrambling through a narrow tunnel, Widget in the lead, Mikail following more by sound and feel than by sight. The passage was lit only by the very occasional clump of glowmoss, and so small that even the diminutive Widget had to go on all fours. This did not seem to slow the rockshaper much; after eights-of-eights of living in such tunnels, doubtless he was used to it. Mikail had a hard time keeping up with him. A taller or less nimble elf would have found it impossible, but the dancer was on the small side for a Tower elf. This circumstance had occasionally irked him; now he found it a blessing.

The tunnel had innumerable twists and turns and multiple branchings. Mikail did not attempt to keep track of them. He was not here to spy out the Mouse’s secrets. He had convinced Widget to bring him mostly by out-stubborning him. Even now the rockshaper was reluctant to lead anyone to his lair.

_Why did I not simply tell him the truth?_ Mikail wondered. _He will know it soon enough._ But Widget’s habit of secrecy, though of longer standing than Mikail’s, was not the only one that was hard to break. Mikail’s might even be stronger, for he often had to struggle to maintain it against his own impulses. How many times had he yearned to share his secret with Nalkor, his soulbrother; to announce it to the Tower; to confide it to the uncle he had always loved and once sought to emulate? He had fought down the impulse time and time again, till by now he was not sure he would be able to say the revealing words aloud.

The pale figure ahead of him halted. Mikail paused too and peered forward. The tunnel seemed to come to a dead end. Had Widget led him astray for some reason? Then he saw the rockshaper’s hands pressed to the stone in front of him. He sensed, dimly, the flow of magic. A yellow gleam appeared between Widget’s hands, grew and widened until his crouching form was framed by an irregular circle of light. He turned and beckoned to Mikail. “Here we are.”

The dancer followed Widget through the newly made entrance and at last found himself able to stand upright. Not that the Mouse’s lair was particularly spacious; “snug” was the word Mikail would have used. The small rock chamber was lined with several layers of furs. Piles of cushions, no doubt filched from bedchambers all over the Tower, were strewn here and there. Alcoves shaped into the rock walls served for storage. The light came from a clay oil lamp suspended from the ceiling.

Widget had crossed the room and was bending over a small mound of sleep-furs. Mikail came to his side and knelt next to him. “He’s still asleep,” the rockshaper murmured, a trace of relief in his voice.

Mikail looked down at Mijo’s pale face. Even in sleep it was marked with pain, lines etched between the dark, slanted brows and at the corners of the wide mouth; it looked older than its eight-and-five turns. The youth’s dark curls were disordered from tossing his head from side to side. His mouth was a little open, his breathing heavy. The dancer laid a hand on Mijo’s forehead. At least he was not feverish.

Widget muttered, “I don’t know what we’re going to tell Vallaree.”

“What did you give him to make him sleep?” Mikail asked.

“One of Feyhr’s potions. We were planning to slip it into the water supply one of these nights.” One corner of Widget’s mouth quirked, but the incipient grin stopped far short of his eyes.

Mikail nodded. Then, bracing himself, he drew the furs aside. What he saw made him shudder, though at the same time he felt a surge of admiration for Widget’s cleverness. The rockshaper had immobilized Mijo’s injured leg in a padded cradle of stone. Had the break been a clean one, little more would have been needed to help it heal straight and strong. But even at first glance Mikail could see that the youth’s leg from a little below the knee had been not so much broken as smashed. The skin was not much abraded—Widget would have been able to shape the stone trap away from Mijo’s leg rather than having to pull the limb out and injure it further—but it was mottled and swollen with internal bleeding. Widget was right; such an injury would never mend cleanly by itself.

“High Ones give me aid,” the dancer murmured. Could _he_ deal with an injury this serious? Doubt gripped him. He was all but untrained…

_I can. I must. Mijo will not live out his life a cripple._

Mikail’s hands were steady as they reached out to hover over Mijo’s leg. He heard Widget’s sharp intake of breath as the rockshaper realized what was happening. Then Widget, the lair, everything around him faded as his consciousness drew in and centered on the task before him.

Shattered … so many tiny pieces … like one of Razmak’s games … a puzzle of bone that must be fitted back together just so. Start with the leg bones, twin shafts, thank the High Ones the knee was untouched, such elegant complexity … fit the slivers together, seal the breaks, close ivory chambers around the sponge of living marrow … working slowly, carefully downward … getting a feel for it, good! Now the ankle, even more complex than the knee with all its little bones, but the pattern was a familiar one … dancers pay attention to legs and feet … this one here, that one there, what happened to—there it is in three pieces, fit them together and ease it into place, gently, gently … it wasn’t difficult really, he knew where everything went but it took time and pain and weariness were pulling at him mustn’t think of that now ANKLE BONES! There, that was the last one, on to the foot—High Ones what a mess! Don’t look at the jumble, take it one step at a time, chunky heel bones and slender foot bones and tiny toe bones to fit together, seal, ease into place (tired, so tired but within soul is singing for joy to be all that I am) … last piece of the ivory puzzle TRIUMPH but not done yet, torn muscle cries, twisted tendons, frayed nerves need to be soothed and repaired, blood vessels made whole, circulation restored to carry away the poisons, bring nourishment to the limb everything must be perfect (stop, you fool, you’re draining yourself dry but this is what I was born to do) ease the pain, cleanse the drug from the body … perfect (Isilien my ancestress help me!) soothe into a healing sleep … _perfect_ … Done!

The healer’s released consciousness fell into oblivion like a stone into still water. He did not even feel the hands that grasped him and eased him onto the furs beside his peacefully sleeping patient.

 

Turns later, it seemed, consciousness faded back in. Someone was bending over him. “Torek,” he mumbled, “I thought I told you I didn’t want an early breakfast.”

There was a stifled snicker, then an arm under his head raising him up, a cup held to his lips. “It’s Widget, Mikail. Here, drink this.”

Mikail swallowed the cool water gratefully, then ventured to open his eyes. He was still in the Mouse’s fur-lined lair. Cushions were piled around him and a fur throw lay over him. He tried to sit up, but the effort made his head swim. The rockshaper pushed him firmly down among the cushions.

“Is he going to be all right, Widget?” asked a light, husky voice from across the room—Mijo’s.

“Ask him. He’s the healer.”

Mikail lay back and stared up at the arching rock of the ceiling. “Yes,” he whispered. “Yes. I am a healer.” The words came more easily than he would have believed possible. Though the fact they voiced must still be hidden from all but those in this room, he would never again conceal it from himself.

“A badly overextended healer,” Widget said in a tone that attempted to be severe. “Don’t think I don’t know the signs. I’ve pulled similar stunts in my time. It’s all too easy to get lost in one’s Talent, isn’t it? I know just the thing for you, though—learned it from Crystel. Turn over.” Widget tossed the fur coverlet aside. Strong hands helped Mikail roll over on his stomach, then began kneading his weary back muscles. The dancer let out a long, relieved sigh and relaxed into the massage.

“How long have you known?” Widget queried softly after a little while.

Mikail closed his eyes for a few heartbeats, thinking back over the turns to the day he first became aware of his Talent. “About an eight-of-eight-of-eights,” he said at last.

“That figures. A long time, but recently enough for you to know how cursed dangerous it was. You’ve hidden it well, I must say. That does explain a couple of things that have been bothering me, though. How you came to know about Vallaree’s pregnancy—you sensed it, didn’t you?”

“I knew of it even before she did.” Mikail paused, then added, “And that was how I could be so certain you were not really crazy.”

Widget snorted. “Even I’m not that sure. Anyone else know?”

“Only you. And my brother and his friends, but they are gone. I could not ask anyone else in the Tower to share a risk that was properly mine alone.”

“Secrets like that can be dangerous knowledge,” Widget agreed. “This one won’t go any further. Get that, imp?” he tossed over his shoulder at Mijo.

“Got it!” Mijo replied.

“Good. And you’re not to go running to him with every little cut and bruise, either.”

Mijo snorted. “’Course not! What d’you think I am, a sissy?”

“No, I think you’re a cursed little nuisance, dashing into tunnels before I’ve checked them. Next time maybe I’ll just leave you there for Beliel to find. Make his day, it would.”

Mijo snickered, apparently unruffled by this threat. “Yeah, ’cause I’d tell him where _you_ are, and then lead him straight to—the slophole!” he finished gleefully. “Can’t you just see old Snake-Face covered with fish guts and goat piss?” There was a thoughtful pause. “I wonder if we could—”

“All right, all right!” Widget interrupted, laughing. “We’ll see what we can do. But right now we have a guest, remember? What happened to that skin of Kela’s best I brought in here an eightday ago?”

Mijo hooted derisively. “An _eight_ day? You expect _Kela’s_ wine to sit around here for an _eight_ day? Malra’s, maybe…”

Mikail broke into the conversation before Widget could reply to this sally. “That reminds me—how long was I unconscious? Sooner or later someone will be looking for me, even if it’s only Torek.”

“Don’t worry,” said Widget. “It’s not far past dawn yet. I told Vayree where you were. She and Crystel will cover for you. So just relax and I’ll see if I can’t find that wine.” He finished off the backrub with a friendly pat on the dancer’s shoulder and went to rummage through the storage alcoves.

While the rockshaper hunted for the wine, Mijo scampered over to Mikail and peered down at him. “You will be all right, won’t you?” he whispered.

The healer studied his adopted nephew’s face, serious for the moment but with his usual grin lurking in his dark eyes. Then he let his gaze travel down the wiry young body from head to foot. One hand reached out and patted Mijo’s leg, a brief touch of Talent confirming that all was well within. Mikail smiled.

“I’ll be fine, Mijo. Just fine.”


End file.
